Red runs the Isen
by Decadent Meerkat
Summary: During the reign of King Aldor, more than three and a half centuries before LOTR, the Rohirrim raid Dunland, with terrible consequences. Features Dunlending POVs.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One **

"The Forgoil are coming!

An old woman screamed, the villagers dropped their tools, and a general shout went up. The Forgoil are coming!

Eleven year-old Forrak peeped outside the entrance of his family's mud hut, and strained his eyes in the eastward direction. He could not yet see anyone approaching in the afternoon haze, but he knew that soon there would be a storm of hooves and metal rampaging through the village; the fair-haired bandits had come again.

For as long as he could remember, these riders from the plains had forayed into his homeland, burning crops, scattering cattle, and occasionally killing villagers. Reprisals, it was said, for his own people's raiding of the small Strawhead settlements, but Forrak knew that it was his people who had suffered the first wrong in this dispute. He had heard the tale told many times, on occasions when his family had huddled around the fire on a cold winter's night, of how in the time of his grandfather's grandfather, the Stone-lords of far-away had gifted the plains to the cruel riders of the North. The riders had driven Forrak's people back westward, beyond the dividing river, taking all the rich lands for themselves. They had even renamed the lands in accordance with their strange tongue; the Mark the plains were now called, while the river had become the Isen. Forrak's people had similarly acquired the name Dunlendings. But that was not the true name of Forrak's people: for though they had been driven back, they had clung to their ancient language, and still dreamed of the day when they might reclaim their own.

"Hide, Forrak, hide!" pleaded his elder sister, Leresta, from the interior of the hut. "Hide before it is too late!"

He looked at her. Leresta was eight summers older than he, and like him was a typical Dunlending in appearance, being brown-eyed and brown-haired, though perhaps the two of them were of heavier build than was normal for their people. Forrak loved his sister dearly; she had helped care for him ever since the death of their mother.

"But what of father?"

His sister smiled grimly. "I shall search for him. But you must hide! If the Forgoil find you, they will not be merciful."

Forrak acquiesced, and swiftly retreating into the shadows of the hut, lay down in a corner of the dirt floor, and covered himself with a pile of sacks. A small gap in the sacks allowed him to keep watch on the entrance. He had survived previous raids this way, and felt safe here : some instinct told him that he would not be found.

Before long he could hear the thud of horse hooves coming nearer. Outside there was now much screaming and shouting, some of it in the strange tongue of the Forgoil, a language of which Forrak's people knew little. Under his sacks Forrak grew afraid. Where was his father? Where was his sister? The acrid smell of smoke began to fill the air.

Suddenly two figures appeared in the entrance of the hut his father and sister. Though aware that he ought to stay quiet and hidden, Forrak almost let shout in shock, for he could see that his father had been wounded. The man still carried a heavy wooden club but his arms and face were bleeding profusely; blood stained the dark beard, and the brown eyes betrayed immense exhaustion. With an effort born of desperation, the father shoved his daughter into the hut, before painfully turning around to face the outside. Forrak watched as the club rose in preparation for a blow, only to then see it abruptly fall from his father's grasp. Before Forrak or his sister could do anything, their father toppled backwards onto the dirt floor. His face was locked in a contorted grimace, but that was not what caught his children's attention. For out of his chest stood a long cruel spear.

Forrak's whole body went rigid with shock and horror. He found himself unable to emit any sound; too stunned was he at the sight of his dead father. But then at that instant Leresta released a powerful, deafening scream. The scream seemed to bring Forrak's world crashing down around him; it entered his ears and rung around his skull in a fit of insane violence and terror. This trauma piled on trauma was too much: Forrak's mind reeled, an immense feeling of dizziness took hold, and all went black before his eyes. He sank into emptiness.

When he had come to his senses a while later, he realised that he was still huddled beneath the sacks, and that his father was still lying by the entrance with a spear in his chest. At first Forrak could not see what had become of his sister, and so he raised his head above the sacks to get a better view of the hut. Then he saw her. It was a sight that almost caused him to vomit.

Leresta was lying on her back, with her feet pointing towards the pile of sacks where Forrak was hiding. Her long hair lay in a dishevelled heap around her head and shoulders. Though she was still breathing, her pale green tunic had been viciously torn, and an ugly bruise had materialised beneath her left eye. Upon her prone body lay a strange man, whom Forrak recognised as one of the Forgoil. The raider had removed his helmet, revealing his plaited flaxen hair, and was taking his pleasure of Leresta.

Initially too stunned to act, Forrak felt a surge of hate run through him. Before he could think, he exploded out of the sack-pile, and grabbing his small knife from his belt, he leapt at the raider with bestial fury. Throwing himself at the man's back, he began to hack savagely at the chain mail shirt. Surprised in the midst of his pleasure, the raider cried out, and instinctively rolled over to his left. Forrak, falling over, lashed out again with his knife. With a ghoulish squelching sound the knife plunged directly into the man's right eye, and into his brain. The momentum of the raider's body carried it over onto its stomach, where it seemed to writhe horribly for a moment, before abruptly falling into stillness.

Turning instinctively to his quivering sister, Forrak gently caressed her cheek. But she shrank from him, an act that caused him to fall to his knees and burst into tears. He mourned his father, something horrible had been done to his sister, and he had very little idea what he should now do. For a long time he knelt weeping on the floor amid the devastation, paying no heed to the outside world. He had no idea how much later it was, when he at last felt a hand on his shoulder. On looking around, he saw it was his neighbour, Gorronef.

"Are you all right, boy?"

Forrak made no reply. The neighbour gave him a reassuring smile.

"Do not worry, young Forrak. We will give your father a funeral fit for a kinsman of the chieftain. But who is this? he added, pointing to the raider's facedown corpse. One of the Forgoil! So your father slew one of these fiends, before another cut him down? Ah, it was a great feat. Mostly our revenge comes when we raid their western borderlands, stealing their cattle, and slaughtering their women and children. Too few of the warriors of the Forgoil meet their doom. Too few."

"I did it," sobbed Forrak at last, holding up his crimson-stained knife.

Temporarily speechless, Gorronef let out a great whoop of delight. He hugged Forrak to his chest. "Well done, lad. Well done! Tell me, how did you manage it?"

Initially reluctant to answer, Forrak saw again in his mind's eye the scene of the raider and his sister. Hate surged through him again, and he found himself excitedly describing the death of the raider in macabre detail. This earned a great pat on the back from his neighbour, who promptly went back outside the hut, and called in a loud voice for everyone to come and see the dead raider. Gorronef evidently had failed to notice Leresta, who was slunk up against a wall, and quietly sobbing.

Soon the hut was filled with people talking elatedly, and congratulating Forrak. Little heed was paid at first to the dead father, still lying on the ground with a grimace on his face and a spear through his chest, but Argnut, grey-bearded chieftain of the village, ordered that the body be covered and put somewhere safe until it could be buried with honour. Leresta's silent tears had at last been perceived, and she was being comforted by the older people of the village, but the majority of the villagers entering the hut had eyes only for Forrak and the dead raider.

"Let's take a look at his face! yelled one, and he rolled the raider's corpse over with his foot. People crowded round to get a closer look. The right side of the dead face was splattered with the dried blood that had earlier oozed from the pierced eye-socket, but on the other side of the face the eye-lid was open, revealing a lifeless, staring blue eye.

"A bit young, isn't he?" was the general comment on the raider's face. And it was indeed a young face, the face of a man not long past twenty. His armour and weapons were nevertheless of the finest quality, which suggested to the onlookers that he might be someone of importance. If only the metal-workers of the Stone-lords would give such armour to us, rather than to these bandits lamented the chieftain Argnut, as he gave orders for the corpse to be stripped of its hauberk, belt, and weaponry.

"I say we burn this brigand's carcass! said someone suddenly. And let's hope the Forgoil see the flames from the other side of the river and see what's coming to them!"

This sparked a lively debate. "Fire's too good for him an old man replied. Better to leave him out for the crebain and wolves to feast on. One predator devoured by another" he cackled.

Gorronef looked excited. "I have a better idea. We cut…"

"We will do nothing until Serred has been given a decent burial" interrupted Argnut sternly, gesturing towards Forrak's fallen father. "Tomorrow we will deal with the bandit, but tonight we must mourn our fallen." Argnut's words had a sobering effect, and almost immediately the mood inside the hut changed; the ecstatic chatter faded, and faces become more sombre. One of the old women comforting Leresta took advantage of the sudden quietness to lambast the insensitivity of the other villagers. "You ghouls!" she wailed. "You care more about a dead Strawhead than one of your own!" On hearing her words Forrak burst into fresh tears, and even Gorronef shifted awkwardly on his feet.

Later that evening, after extensive funeral formalities, Forrak and his sister stood over the grave of their father. Forrak, being too young to remember the death of his mother, had never felt such loss. Leresta, having recovered her composure after her harrowing experience, felt she was reliving a nightmare. She had been Forrak's age when she had watched helplessly during her mother's final illness. Today she had watched helplessly as a spear had cut down her father. And she had had that done to her. She shuddered involuntarily at the memory. Memory. Such a horrible thing. An instrument for torturing oneself.

The Rohirrim, having returned across the Fords of Isen, wearily made their way back along the road, knowing that tomorrow they would arrive back at the great fortress of the Súthburg. They were pleased to have the raiding mission completed; entanglements with the wild Dunlendings beyond the river were never pleasant experiences. On this occasion the mission had been particularly exhausting, with a large number of villages in southeastern Dunland being targeted. It had nevertheless been a successful operation, and tired though he was, Éofor, leader of the troop, smiled to himself. Those Dunlendings would think twice in future before attacking the small outlying Westfold settlements.

What Éofor and his men had failed to notice, however, was that one of their own number was missing. Under normal circumstances there would have been a check made, but Rohirric raiding parties into Dunland had grown lax in recent times - losing men on such missions was the greatest rarity. The extreme weariness of the men also reinforced their general desire to dispense with formalities and return home. Indeed, it was only after they had halted for the night that someone finally realised that Hámwine was absent. Enquiries about who had been last to see him all met a dead-end.

"Curse that young fool!" spat Éofor, as he heard the news. "I knew I should never have allowed Fréawine to talk me into taking Hámwine with us!" His annoyance was palpable as he glared back through the moonlit darkness towards the Isen. This was followed by an uncomfortable moment of silence, before Fram, the phlegmatic second-in-command, broke the tension.

"But surely we must go back to search for him? He is, after all, the grandson of the King's Heir, and both Fréa and Fréawine will not be pleased if they find him to be missing."

"Bah!" replied Éofor. "He's not missing. He's playing one of his stupid japes. Remember that nonsense at Edoras last year? I'm not going all the way back on a fruitless search for him only for that young imbecile to turn up much later safe and sound at the Súthburg or Meduseld."

"But…"

"No, Fram. I'm not going to be made a fool of this time. I will wager anything you like that he is perfectly safe. But if by some strange chance Hámwine has fallen into difficulties then he can get himself out of them. Curse him! If only he were more like his elder brother. Goldwine is a grandson of the King's Heir that we can be proud of, but Hámwine…" Éofor's words trailed off, and he shook his head sadly.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

The morning following the raid found Forrak and Leresta dozing under a blanket in Gorronef's hut. They had fallen asleep beside their father's grave, but around midnight had been found and carried back indoors by Gorronef and his wife. The sun was high in the sky when Forrak at last opened his eyes and stretched.

"Awake are we?" said a kindly voice. It was Gorronef's wife, sitting on a rickety wooden stool, with a mixing bowl in her hands. "We took you in during the night, for fear that the creatures of the dark would find you first. "It does not pay, " she added sombrely, waving her bony finger, "to slumber near a newly dug grave."

Forrak sat up. "Will you being taking care of us, Trenneila?" he asked suddenly, though as soon as he said it he blushed, fearing that Trenneila would think his bald question too direct. Gorronef and Trenneila were hospitable people, and were prosperous by the standards of the village, but extra mouths to feed were a luxury that few could afford. As if guessing his fear, Trenneila smiled.

"You and your sister have gone through too much to be left to fend for yourselves. And Gorronef and I have never had any children. If Leresta wills it, we shall care for you."

Forrak was about to leap across the floor, and embrace the lean old woman in gratitude. But he was interrupted by the sudden arrival of an axe-carrying Gorronef. Gorronef was in a noticeably good mood, and was whistling to himself. On seeing Forrak his already wide grin grew even broader.

"Ah, Forrak! You re awake! Good. Follow me: I have something to show you."

He turned and left the hut. Leaving Leresta still sleeping beneath the blanket, Forrak hurried after him. Soon they came to the centre of the village, where a large crowd, including the chieftain Argnut, had gathered. The crowd parted to let Forrak and Gorronef through, and Forrak heard much murmur of excitement as they passed within. Then he saw on the grass in front of him the body of the raider he had slain yesterday. It was now growing cold and rigid, and had been stripped of its fine armour and weaponry, though its face-up position meant that the lifeless blue eye was still visible.

Argnut stepped forward and put his hand on Forrak's shoulder. "Forrak, you have done a great deed. You have slain one of the Forgoil, and avenged your father. Because of this, it has been decided that you shall be the one to behead this bandit. The head shall be sent over the Isen as a sign to all the Forgoil of what awaits them." Taking the axe from Gorronef Argnut handed it to Forrak. "Do us proud, young Forrak."

The sudden weight of the axe in his hand pulled Forrak down for a moment, but he drew himself back up, and stepped towards the corpse. The crowd had become silent in its anticipation; the only sound Forrak could hear was the sound of birds chirping in the boughs of a nearby tree. He concentrated all his thought on the cadaver in front of him. Almost at once he saw himself back under the sacks, helplessly watching as his father had been cut down. Once again, he heard Leresta's haunting and terrible scream. And once again he saw the ravishment of his sister. The feeling of hate flooded through him again, and he lifted the axe above his head. Then with all his energy, he brought it crashing down on the neck of the dead raider. The blunt weapon cut through the dead skin and veins, coming to a stop a third of the way through the neck.

Forrak pulled the axe out again, and lifted it up to deliver another blow. By now his hate had begun to be mingled with a macabre sense of exhilaration. He began to feel that he was not just doing this for himself, or his sister, or his father. He felt that he was doing this for his entire people; that with these axe blows he was avenging more than a century of wrong. It felt good. Very good. The axe came down again. On this occasion, however, the blow was off-target, and clipping the end of the dead chin, the axe cut in a clumsy diagonal. Forrak steadied himself for another attempt. Once more the weapon rose and fell, and this time he had success. The axe cut through the remainder of the neck, leaving only a thin piece of skin connecting the head with the rest of the body. After a fourth blow Forrak had succeeded in severing the head completely, inducing a great cheer from the onlookers.

Reaching down and seizing the head by its mane of flaxen hair, Argnut held it aloft for the entire assembled crowd to see. The cheer soon grew in volume, until Forrak could hardly hear himself think amid the great tumult of noise. The hate within him had now been completely replaced by elation: here were the people of his village, all the people he had ever known, shouting his name as though it had some mystical significance. He was a hero. He was their hero.

A day after leaving the Súthburg, the great hall of Meduseld came into the view of the riders. Éofor and his men, now fully refreshed, were eager to report the success of their mission to the King's Heir. The day was fine and clear, a cool breeze was blowing, and the late morning sun was sparkling on men's spears as the mighty horses of Rohan thundered across the last couple of leagues towards the royal residence. Only one thing was dampening Éofor's mood. Hámwine. He had not been found at the Súthburg when they had arrived there, nor had there been any news of him by the time they had left that great fortress. On his departure Éofor had instructed the Súthburg garrison to keep a close watch on the surrounding countryside, a reluctant move on his part, for Éofor did not want to appear that he was in any way backtracking on his earlier decision.

Publicly Éofor still continued to reassure his men that Hámwine would turn up sooner or later in Edoras, and that there was no need for worry. In all probability he had by-passed the Súthburg altogether and had reached Meduseld before them. Privately, Éofor tried to banish the doubts eating away in the back of his mind by telling himself that this mess was all Hámwine's fault. After all, it was the young fool who had got himself lost in the first place. But it was not working; no one was truly convinced that all was well, and Éofor could not drive out his feelings of guilt. He turned his head towards Fram in hope of getting some reassurance, but he received no aid from that quarter: Fram could be infuriatingly inscrutable at times, and this was one of those times. Éofor had no way of telling the extent to which his second-in-command blamed him for not going back to search.

As they climbed up the road to Edoras they passed the two barrows that had been raised over the two earlier Kings of the Mark: Eorl and Brego. Covered in the snow-white simbelmynë, the silent mounds of the dead Kings were an awe-inspiring sight. Yet, Éofor thought to himself, there should have been a third barrow here. For though few who now lived could remember the day of Baldor's fateful oath, it was a tale known by all. The tale of the man who had resolved at the building of Meduseld to take the Paths of the Dead, and had never returned.

But there would soon be a third barrow here anyway, thought Éofor darkly. The man to whom Brego's crown had passed, Baldor's younger brother Aldor, was ninety-seven years of age, and had long since fallen into decrepitude. He was a King in name only, and all the Mark knew that the day would soon come when death would put an end to his dotage. Aldor was still treated with the honour traditionally accorded to the Lord of the Mark, but the real power had now passed to his son, the King's Heir and First Marshal of the Mark, Fréa, who was himself an old man. It was to Fréa that Éofor now had to make his report.

The guards at the gates were in a jovial mood when Éofor and his men at last reached Edoras. Nodding appreciation, a tall man stepped forward to greet the arrivals.

"Greetings, Éofor son of Éothain! What news of the latest mission?"

Concealing his own inner disquiet, Éofor dismounted, gave the man a positive summary of the raid that omitted any reference to Hámwine, and was let through the gate.

Removing his helmet he approached the golden hall with Fram at his side, hoping that Fréa would be as easy to deceive as the guards at the gate. Perhaps Fréa did not even know that Hámwine had actually been in the raiding party: Hámwine's inclusion had, after all, been a last minute decision. A moment later Éofor's hopes sank again when he remembered that Fréawine would almost certainly have told his father of the change. Damn. If Hámwine had not yet returned to Edoras then Éofor knew that would have to bluff his way through. And he did not fancy his chances of doing so : he was a soldier, not a confidence trickster. Above all, however, he hoped that Fram would keep his mouth shut, and allow him to do all the talking to the King's Heir.

"Éofor! It is good to set eyes on you again, my old friend!" said a familiar voice from behind him. Éofor's heart sank into his boots. It was Fréawine. Father of Goldwine and Hámwine, and son of Fréa. The man who had persuaded Éofor to take the young prince with him on the fateful mission

"Greetings, my lord Fréawine," replied Éofor with false cheerfulness. "The mission was successful, and I am on my way to give your father the good news. So if you will just excuse me for a moment…"

"Very well," mused Fréawine. "But tell me, did Hámwine acquit himself well?"

Fréawine would not be asking that question if Hámwine had already returned. Éofor's blood ran cold. "Oh yes," he began, wondering how on extricate himself from this mess. At that point, however, Fram interrupted him.

"Hámwine is not with us, my lord. We have not seen him since the raid."

It was difficult to tell whether it was Fréawine or Éofor who was more surprised at Fram's words. Éofor wanted to tear Fram limb from limb, and hoped that Fréawine's normally passive nature would be enough to restrain the King's grandson from doing the same to him. Fréawine's blue eyes narrowed as he stared intensely at the man that he had a moment ago referred to as his old friend.

"Where is he then?" he asked coldly.

At this Éofor made no answer. Fram, however, saw an opportunity to push the knife in deeper.

"No-one knows, my lord. Éofor ordered us not to look for him, and so we have come back without your son."

What happened next startled even Fram. Without warning Fréawine reached out and seized Éofor by his hair, pulling his face close to his own.

"You did not look? he hissed through gritted teeth. Fréawine's face was a bubbling cauldron of anger; no one had ever seen him so angry.

"I, I, thought he was playing tricks on us," stammered Éofor, in a voice that caused many onlookers to raise their eyebrows: it was not often that a Rohirric commander lost his poise in such a way, least of all a commander as battle-hardened as Éofor.

Fréawine shoved him away, and Éofor fell backwards onto the ground. He sat there for a moment, too stunned to move.

"Guards!" cried Fréawine at the top of his voice. "Arrest this man!" The guards of Meduseld arrived swiftly, and soon had Éofor surrounded. One of them pulled Éofor to his feet, where he found himself once more looking straight into Freäwine's cold glare.

"I am leaving soon," said Fréawine, with a sudden calmness, which to Éofor was more horrible than the fury of a moment earlier. "I shall search every stone, every river, and every valley of Dunland and the Westfold for my son. If necessary I shall turn the Isen itself upside down."

"Take me with you!" pleaded Éofor, as his survival instinct got the better of his sense of dignity. "I know those lands. I could be useful!"

"Very useful. If I find my son, and he is well and whole, then you shall show your usefulness by acting as his servant for a year and a day. You shall bring him food, polish his boots, and obey his every command. If, however, I find that harm has befallen him, then you will show your usefulness in other ways."

Éofor frowned. "How so?"

"By having your head on a spike as a warning to fools. Guards, take him away."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

A day later Fréawine rode in through the gates of the Súthburg accompanied by his eldest son, Goldwine, and by Fram, who had taken over command from Éofor. Throughout his journey Fréawine had been wracking his mind with questions. What had happened to his son? How could Éofor have acted so foolishly, if not maliciously? Fréawine would have been first to admit that Hámwine was not the most obedient lad on earth, nor was he the most popular, but the whole situation remained baffling.

The three men were in the process of dismounting when they saw a short white-haired man scurrying across the courtyard towards them. It was Alding, commander of the Súthburg garrison. Fréawine smiled wryly. Though Alding had once been one of the great swordsmen of the Mark, he certainly did not look it: not only was he smaller than most of the Rohirrim, he was also no athlete, and age was clearly starting to take its toll on his appearance.

"Ah, Fréawine son of Fréa!" he spluttered. "I saw you coming from a distance! I guess why you have come: you seek news of Hámwine, do you not?"

"Aye. I have been told that he is missing." Fréawine's thoughts briefly returned to Éofor, and Alding perceived a brief glint of anger in his eyes.

"So it would seem. We have been keeping close watch on the surrounding countryside for any sign of your son. We found nothing, until yesterday, when Hámwine's riderless horse was located half a league from here. It was in a poor state."

"Nothing else?"

"No, my lord."

Fréawine's head sank. This was grievous news indeed. That horse had been Hámwine's pride and joy, and if he had been separated from it then ill fortune must surely have befallen him. Alding, noticing the sudden sadness that had come over the face of the King s grandson, proceeded to change the subject.

"I see you have ridden hard on your journey here," he said, gesturing at the grime clinging to the garments of Fréawine and his companions. "Perhaps you would like some food and rest?"

This brought a smile to Fréawine's tormented face. "Alding, you are a true friend."

Later that afternoon, after a brief wash, they were seated around Alding's table. Food and ale, however, could not lift their spirits, and despite the garrison commander's best efforts to stimulate conversation, there were prolonged and uncomfortable periods of silence. The matter of the missing son of Fréawine seemed to hang over the table like a vicious, all-embracing fog; no one could tear their minds away from it, even for the briefest of moments. Goldwine regularly looked across the table at his father, his face twisted with angst. Even Fram's facial expression for once ceased to be so calm and enigmatic; worry was clearly eating away at his nerves. And, as for Fréawine, Alding found it painful to even look in the direction of his old friend. At last Alding concluded that his conversational gambits were futile, and decided to concentrate his attention on his meal. He was draining his tankard when he saw a messenger appear in the doorway.

"Commander Alding, you are required at the gate. We may have news."

"News of what?"

"Hámwine, sir."

Alding thrust his tankard onto the table, and hurriedly followed the messenger out of the room. At his heels were Fréawine and his companions. Had their fears proved unfounded after all? Fréawine knew that he had to find out. They moved swiftly down winding stairs and along time-eaten corridors; Alding's face was sweating with exertion as he attempted to keep pace with his younger and longer-legged friends. When they at last reached the gate they found a number of the soldiers of the garrison clustered around an elderly peasant, who seemed to be clutching a sack in her ancient, withered hands. On seeing Alding and Fréawine the soldiers moved awkwardly to one side to let them through.

"What is this, Grímwine?" Alding enquired of a tall guard.

Grímwine pointed to the peasant. "Says she's got Hámwine's head in that sack of her's."

On hearing this Fréawine gasped, and seized the sack from the old woman. She protested, but all eyes were on Fréawine as he reached into the sack and drew out the object it contained.

It was Hámwine s head. Or what was left of it: its ears had been hacked off, as had part of the nose. The area around where the right eye should have been was already starting to disappear beneath dark gangrenous decay, and a sickening stench of putrefaction and death now filled the air, causing the onlookers to edge backwards. The skin was also starting to become marbled in appearance: this was the face of a man who had been dead for perhaps four days in the heat of summer. No one could, however, tear their eyes away from the grisly sight. Yet, as Fréawine held it up in the late afternoon sun he could see that despite the head's disfigurements the features were still clearly recognisable. It was his son. Fréawine knew that face; it was the face of someone he had looked after for twenty years, watching the lad grow from childhood to maturity. Now it was the face of someone who had been forever taken away from him.

"Where did you find it?" Fram quietly asked the old peasant.

"We found it sitting on the road outside our village yesterday morning. It had just been left there. Took us a while to recognise it though, seeing as royalty doesn't pass our way too often."

What appeared to be the woman's son stepped out from behind her. He nodded his head in agreement. "But once we figured out who it was, we took it straight here."

"Dunlendings," said Fréawine, as though in a trance. "Dunlendings." A wave of anger passed over his face, and after thanking the peasants he thrust the head into the hands of a surprised Alding.

"Alding," he said, "I need twenty of your men. I will be back in two days, three days at most."

Alding's eyes narrowed. He felt uneasy: this was not the Fréawine he had known and respected for all these years. The son of the King's Heir had never been an impulsive man, but he now seemed to veritably burn with inner hatred and desire for retribution. Still, Alding thought to himself, personal tragedy does strange things to people.

"As you wish, my lord."

Fréawine then turned to his two companions. "Fram, you shall come with me to Dunland. Goldwine…" His words trailed off as he looked at the young man standing before him. Twenty-one years old. His only remaining son.

"Yes, father?"

"You shall remain here until I return." As if in afterthought he added with a smile "Alding needs some company."

An hour later Goldwine and Alding stood by a window, and silently watched as Fréawine, Fram and the others rode out of the gates and began to make their way along the road to the Fords of Isen. When the horsemen had at last disappeared from view, Alding sighed and shook his head sadly. "Goldwine, your father is not himself. One can only hope that his fell mood does not yield yet more disasters."

Goldwine raised his eyebrows on hearing the old man s words. "But my father wishes only to avenge the wrong done to us," he said. Would you have him stand idly by as those Dunlending brigands celebrate my brother's murder?"

The garrison commander raised his eyes to meet Goldwine's. So young he thought, as he looked into those fierce blue eyes. So young.

"Goldwine son of Fréawine, I have fought alongside your father in the past. I fought alongside his father before him. And his father before him. As a soldier of the Mark I have seen three-score years of hostility between our people and the Dunlendings beyond the river. I have seen Dunlending raiders slay pregnant women. And I have watched as our raiding parties have ridden down Dunlending children for sport."

Goldwine opened his mouth as if to speak, but thinking better of it allowed the old man to continue.

"I have seen such things done in the name of vengeance. But the vengeance healed nothing: it only led to more deaths and more hatred. This is why I fear for your father. No good can come of the hatred that now consumes him."

Goldwine said nothing, but instead returned his gaze to the window. Nothing could now be seen moving on the road outside, but the sun was now setting beyond the river, causing the great stone walls of the Súthburg to be dyed as with blood. Goldwine's thoughts once more went back to Hámwine. Hámwine. His own dear brother.

It was twilight the following day when Fréawine and Fram looked down upon the small Dunlending village. None of the villagers were aware of presence of the two men, for as soon as they had arrived near the village they had dismounted and hidden themselves amid the trees that overlooked the valley. The horses and the men from Alding's garrison had been left to await Fréawine's signal.

"Fram, we will wait until darkness," said Fréawine slowly, as he watched the small figures moving about in the valley below him. "Do you hear me? Darkness."

Fram nodded silently, and returned his gaze to the Dunlending villagers. They were quietly preparing their evening meals, completely unaware of what would soon befall them. Darkness it is, he breathed to himself.

It must have been well past midnight when Forrak felt someone shaking him awake. Leresta.

"Forrak, they say that there is a strange light in the distance."

"Who says?" he mumbled sleepily.

"Gorronef and Trenneila."

Forrak rubbed his eyes, and saw Trenneila's thin form silhouetted in the hut's entrance. She seemed terrified. "Come quickly!" she waved frantically at Forrak and Leresta. Leresta pulled her young brother to his feet, and tugged him towards the entrance. They stumbled out of the hut together. In the light of the moon and burning torches they saw that many of their fellow villagers were standing and talking nervously. Many were shouting and pointing at a strange light in the distance. Something glowed red against the darkness of the night.

Forrak heard Gorronef's alarmed voice behind him. "Demons! The demons of the forest have come!"

Trenneila shook her head. "No!" she screamed. "Are you all blind? It is the work of the Forgoil! What we see is Talont in flames!"

So the Forgoil were burning the next village, thought Forrak. And indeed, it was soon clear that it was fire that they could see in the distance; even from here they could see the flames of the cruel inferno rise into the night. The summer had been a warm one with little rain; the huts of Talont were being consumed as though they were dry twigs.

Forrak closed his eyes. He knew that as he and the others stood here the people of Talont were being burned alive. Or being cut down by the raiders. The horror that had come to his village a few days earlier was now happening again, this time to others, and he and his fellow villagers were helpless to stop it. Inside his mind Forrak once more realised that Leresta's terrifying scream was returning to haunt him. The Forgoil had gained their revenge.


End file.
